


Between Two Witchers

by whiskeywitch



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied mental illness, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywitch/pseuds/whiskeywitch
Summary: Geralt gets sick after rusalka hunting. Jaskier tries his best to take care of him, but needs a little help.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 197





	Between Two Witchers

**Author's Note:**

> This story introduces my original character, Casmir. I hope you like him as much as I do!

A squirrel, scolding from high up in the trees above him, wakes Jaskier from sleep. He's puzzled to see that the sun is up past the horizon. Geralt is usually nudging him awake just before dawn. 

He sits up from where he was sleeping in soft grass that is now dewy and damp. Geralt is curled up on the ground, back facing the long dead fire. It seems Geralt wasn't stoking it overnight either. 

Jaskier is stiff from both sleeping on the ground and the chill in the morning air. He stands up, stretches his arms over his head, and moves to lean over Geralt. 

The witcher normally sleeps laid out flat like a corpse, but this morning he is on his side and burrowed under his cloak. Somehow that is more unsettling than his usual funeral pyre position. 

Jaskier reaches down, hesitates a moment, then touches his shoulder. “Geralt?” 

He takes in a deep breath and stirs, brow knit in sleepy consternation. “What?” he growls.

“Are you all right? It's morning and—” 

Geralt still has his face tucked against his cloak but he’s awake now. If Jaskier didn't know any better, he would say that Geralt looks ill. He never seems well-rested, but this morning he looks particularly exhausted. Jaskier lays his hand across Geralt's forehead and gets his arm smacked away. 

“Quit,” Geralt says. 

“You're warm,” Jaskier replies. “I thought witchers couldn't get sick.”

Geralt sits up and closes his eyes again, frowning. Jaskier didn't think it was possible for the man to get any paler, but he is this morning. Geralt's silver hair is a ratty mess and Jaskier can't stop himself from pulling a dead leaf out of it. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. It's probably meant as a warning but comes out like a plea. His gravelly voice sounds like broken glass grinding under heavy boots. 

“I bet it's from all the fun we had yesterday,” Jaskier says, tossing the leaf away. “Caught yourself a cold.” 

The fun to which Jaskier refers is the rusalka that Geralt hunted without success. All he managed to do was get himself absolutely soaked in a frigid river, while the malevolent spirit of the drowned woman mostly eluded him. Geralt spent most of the day shivering, wet, and furious. 

“Witchers don’t get colds,” Geralt says, getting his legs under himself and standing up. 

Jaskier looks him up and down, confirming what he already knew. “Well, you look like absolute hell.” 

“Thank you.” 

Jaskier helps Geralt break camp, though there isn’t much to break. Roach is busy clipping grass and barely seems to notice when Geralt starts putting on her tack. Watching Geralt dress and undress is usually a welcome sight to Jaskier, but this morning it looks like putting on the leather armor is physically painful for him. 

“Do you need help?” Jaskier asks, although he’s not sure what he’d help with. 

Geralt makes a noise at him, which Jaskier understands to mean “no.” The man has an endless vocabulary of wordless sounds and Jaskier has become attuned to their meanings. Geralt heaves himself onto Roach’s saddle, again moving like it hurts. He turns the horse in the direction of the river. 

“Where are we going?” The bard already knows, but wants to confirm Geralt’s hardheadedness. 

“Same place we were yesterday, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier takes a few long strides ahead of Roach so Geralt can get a decent look at his incredulousness. For dramatic effect, of course. “Back to the river? In your state?” 

Geralt is, as usual, unmoved. “I’m not in a state,” he says.

“Geralt. You’re sick,” Jaskier says. “Fever, body aches, sore throat?” 

He knows that Geralt isn’t the best at listening to signals from his body. Sensations like fatigue come secondary to whatever needs doing. And right now, the witcher is focused on the rusalka. Instead of responding to Jaskier, Geralt lets his eyes flutter closed for a moment. The brisk autumn breeze has to feel good on his hot, dry face. 

“You said the job didn’t even command decent pay,” Jaskier continues. “Why go back?” 

Geralt opens his eyes and frowns like he’s being bothered. “It’s still money. And until someone takes care of it, she’s still drowning men.” 

“Such altruism, characteristic of the White Wolf...” Jaskier is speaking like he is giving a particularly moving soliloquy. “So magnanimous!”

With Jaskier’s back turned, Geralt takes his foot out of the stirrup and gives him a not-so-gentle kick between the shoulder blades. 

“Ow!” Jaskier jumps and whirls to see the barest hint of a smirk on Geralt’s pale lips. “You’re rude today!” 

He can’t even reach the sore spot to rub it. The fancy sleeves on his brocade doublet are too tight. Instead he slings his lute across his back and moves out of kicking distance. 

“I have a headache and you’re not helping,” Geralt says. His voice is rough from what is undoubtedly a very sore throat, but he’s making an effort to be gentle. “Can we not talk for a little bit, please?” 

Jaskier throws up his arms in frustration. They’re going in the exact opposite direction of the village, which is where they should be headed. But he remains silent because Geralt did ask nicely. 

It’s quickly becoming a beautiful day. The sky is a deep, bright blue without a single cloud marking it. The leaves in the trees lining the road are turning colors and drying out, making them rattle and hiss against the wind. It would be perfect, if it weren’t for the fact that Geralt has started sniffing every thirty seconds. Jaskier is just about to offer him a handkerchief when Geralt brings Roach to a stop. She flicks her ears and shakes her head, chewing on her bit. 

“What?” 

“Someone’s coming.” 

Jaskier looks down the road in the direction they are headed, then up the way they came. He doesn’t see anyone. Geralt has his head tilted ever so slightly, like he’s listening for something. Just as Jaskier is opening his mouth to speak, he sees a black horse come around a bend in the road. The rider is slight, maybe a woman, and heading toward them. 

Geralt nudges Roach into motion, looking cautious. 

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks, following. 

“I think I know them,” Geralt says. 

“Is that a problem?” Jaskier supposes it very well could be. Geralt doesn’t have many friends. 

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but reaches up and touches his medallion with a gloved hand. “I knew it,” he says as they get closer. Instead of sounding angry, he sounds amused. 

Jaskier is completely in the dark. “Knew what?” he asks. “Geralt?” 

The rider raises a hand in greeting. It is a small, sturdy man with a thick braid of coppery hair down his back. He’s in a simple tunic and doeskin breeches, completely soaked. A pile of mismatched armor is bundled up on the back of his little horse and two swords are strapped to his back. 

“Felt you before I saw you,” he says. The smile on his face is made crooked by the deep scar that marks his bottom lip and chin, but the expression is open and friendly. 

“Same here,” Geralt says. “Vesemir let you out of Kaer Morhen?” 

For a split second, there is a murderous flicker in the man’s eyes. But that’s the only indication of hurt that Jaskier sees. “I can come and go as I please,” he says. 

Jaskier looks back and forth between the two men, before settling his eyes on Geralt. “Are you going to bother introducing me?” 

Geralt rolls his eyes at him. “Jaskier, this is Casmir.” 

“Jaskier, the famous bard. Well met.” Casmir reaches down to give a handshake. 

Such a compliment would normally ingratiate a person to Jaskier. But Casmir’s hand is bare and insanely cold, which makes the hair on the back of Jaskier’s neck stand up. Casmir has the same slitted eyes as Geralt, though his are more honey than polished brass. They are striking, but compliment him rather than make him look peculiar. 

“You’re a witcher,” Jaskier says. 

“I am. That’s how I know Geralt,” he replies. 

“You’re also soaked,” Jaskier says. “Where have you—? Oh.” 

Jaskier knows why he’s been feeling an eerie chill. Attached to the saddlebag of Casmir’s horse is a burlap sack and it’s leaking down the horse’s flank. The blood is nearly invisible against the dark hair, except for the wet glint in the sunlight. 

“Went rusalka hunting this morning and the soggy bitch nearly drowned me,” Casmir says, grinning. “I have her head. Want to see?” 

Jaskier’s eyes are wide. “Mmm, no thank you… Geralt might, though…” 

“You killed her?” Geralt asks flatly. 

Jaskier can’t discern the emotion in Geralt’s voice. Is he angry or impressed? Maybe both, or maybe nothing at all. 

“Someone had to,” Casmir says. A look of realization comes over his freckled face. “Oh, they told me another witcher was there yesterday and left, empty-handed and pissed. Was that you?” 

“Of course it was me!” Geralt snarls. 

Casmir doesn’t even react. In fact, he looks bemused. “Sorry.” 

“You’re not sorry at all.” 

“No, not particularly,” Casmir says, breaking into another sunny smile. 

Jaskier thinks he’s kind of beautiful, in a strange way. Casmir has the kind of attractiveness one could attribute to a forest spirit—one made of moss, loam, the occult, and power obtained only through blood. Jaskier is already writing a song in his head when Casmir hops off his horse and approaches Geralt. He motions for the man to lean down and, shockingly, he does so without complaint. Casmir lays a pale hand across Geralt’s forehead, the same gesture that got Jaskier swatted this morning. But this time, Geralt closes his eyes and makes a noise of startled relief. Casmir's icy hand must feel good. 

“You’re sick. I can feel it,” Casmir says. He smooths his hand down the side of Geralt’s face and miraculously doesn’t get barked at. “Poor thing.” 

Geralt straightens in the saddle, looking pained. Now Jaskier is wondering what type of relationship exists between the two witchers. He didn’t take their kind for being touchy-feely with each other, but Casmir has a gentleness about him that Geralt seems to tolerate. 

“It’s a good thing you got the rusalka. Geralt was going back for her,” Jaskier says. 

“Of course you were. Caught your death in that river and now you’re going back for more.” Casmir is shaking his head as he gets back on his horse. “Sorry I took your rusalka, though. Maybe I can make it up to you?” 

Neither Jaskier nor Geralt can turn down the offer of food and lodging. Casmir just has to show the village alderman that the job is done. 

Casmir and Jaskier chat while they make their way down the road, with Geralt occasionally interjecting. Above them, a bird of prey is wheeling overhead. It cries sharply, wings spread to glide on warm currents of air. Jaskier makes a joke about vultures coming for Geralt. 

Casmir looks skyward. “There she is.” 

He produces a thick leather glove from one saddlebag and a tiny dead mouse from the other. Geralt and Jaskier watch as the smaller witcher holds his arm aloft and the bird suddenly swoops down. 

She lands on Casmir's wrist with a graceful flutter and a jingle of the leather jesses fastened to her feet. Casmir is smiling as she takes her treat and swallows it whole by throwing back her head. 

“Beautiful bird,” Jaskier says, blinking. He swears nothing surprises him anymore. 

“This is Iga.” Casmir scratches her chest with his bare hand and surprisingly comes away with all his fingers. In fact, she fluffs her tawny feathers in a show of affection. “She's a hunting hawk. I train and sell them for some extra scratch.” 

“What's Vesemir think of you turning Kaer Morhen into an aviary?” Geralt asks. 

Casmir shoots him another look. Geralt isn't outright needling Casmir, but it makes Jaskier curious to know more about what is unspoken between them. 

“Vesemir thinks I need to stay busy.” 

Geralt seems satisfied with that. Instead of putting a hood on Iga, Casmir lets go of her jesses and casts her from his wrist. 

“She'll come back to you?” Jaskier asks.

Casmir watches her disappear in a few flaps. “Always.” 

It’s afternoon when they reach the little town. In response to the inevitable staring, Geralt pulls up the hood of his cloak and succeeds only in making himself look stranger. Casmir goes into the alderman’s office with the dripping bag, carrying it as nonchalantly as a guest bringing a spice cake. 

They wait outside—Geralt nodding off in the warm sun and Jaskier trying to peer in the dusty windows—as Casmir goes to collect his payment. There’s a shout from inside, which is likely the response to the rusalka head. 

“Was that necessary?” Geralt asks when Casmir returns, triumphant. 

“Had to prove it somehow.” Casmir shrugs. “And didn't they tell you a sorcerer would come for her remains?” 

“You only had the head,” Geralt says dryly. 

“I left the rest of her on the ferry dock, as instructed. We have a bad enough reputation without showing a paying customer that the job is done,” Casmir says. “People won't take our word for it anymore.”

Geralt gives a grunt of agreement. They haven't yet been banished from the town or pelted with rocks, so it's safe to assume they'll be able to stay the night. 

The tavern is getting busy in the late afternoon. Everyone notices the three unusual guests: a bard and two witchers, one sick and one soaking wet. But Casmir is disarming and no one makes any fuss about their presence. The room they are given is cozy and Geralt immediately commandeers the bed, no doubt rubbing his sickness all over it. 

“At least take off your boots,” Jaskier scolds. He has to wrestle them off Geralt, who grumbles at him. 

Casmir has a suggestion. “Maybe your armor too.” 

Geralt is wholly uncooperative, half-asleep by the time they unfasten all the pieces of studded leather and pry them off him. He rolls over in a twist of blankets once he is freed, asleep. 

“Will he be all right?” Jaskier asks. 

“He will,” Casmir says. “Nothing deadly. We'll let him sleep awhile and then force some tea and soup on him.” 

“So witchers _do_ get sick?”

“Rarely, but yes. Did Geralt tell you we don't?” 

Jaskier confirms this and Casmir rolls his eyes, both amused and annoyed. Jaskier has so many questions to ask Casmir, about Geralt and witchers in general. He tunes his lute while he watches Casmir take off his wet clothes. Much like Geralt, the man is covered in scars. Most are old but some are new. Along with those marks, he has many freckles. Jaskier wonders if anyone has gotten close enough to appreciate the smattering of them on his shapely thighs. Casmir takes his braid out and shakes his head. Now that it's loose, Jaskier can see he has an incredible amount of damp, wavy hair. 

“How long have you known Geralt?” Jaskier asks. 

Casmir changes into dry clothes from his pack before setting his boots by the fire so they will dry out. “Longer than you've been alive,” he says. “We grew up together, trained to be witchers at Kaer Morhen.” 

“What was that like?” 

“...Difficult. Each trial whittled us down to a number of fewer and fewer boys. Geralt was the only one of his group to survive,” Casmir says. 

Geralt has told Jaskier pieces here and there, but not much as a whole. “He told me that it's a good thing the old ways are forgotten.” 

“I have to agree with him.” 

Casmir sets about digging around in his pack, from which he produces a hairbrush. He sits by the fire and brushes his thick mane of hair, layer by layer, and then braids it in the same way he had it before. Jaskier watches him work with the same easy fluidity of a maiden preparing her long hair for bed. In contrast, he can’t remember the last time he saw Geralt take a brush to his head. It’s comforting, in a way, to know that a lot of Geralt’s actions are idiosyncrasies. They are not the ways of all witchers, as Geralt would like him to believe. 

They let Geralt sleep until well past dark, speaking quietly so they don’t disturb him. Casmir sets aside soup and some bread for him after they take their supper. He’s in his pack again, this time pulling out herbs and looking at them like he’s making a decision about each tiny sprig. 

Geralt is very secretive about what he keeps in his witcher kit, but Casmir has everything laid out on the floor in front of him and seems to have tenfold the items. Some things Jaskier recognizes, like a mortar and pestle. But most are foreign to him, mainly the bits of plants and mushrooms and tubers that he can’t identify. 

“Are these for your potion making?” Jaskier asks, unable to stop his nosiness. 

“Some of it. I supplement my scant witcher pay with making medicines,” Casmir says. 

Jaskier has all sorts of questions about a witcher that both heals and exterminates, a duality he hadn’t ever considered. He watches as Casmir carefully chooses a mixture of herbs and prepares them by rolling the small bundle between his hands. The plants are aromatic; crushing them both releases their medicinal smell and stains Casmir’s palms faintly green. 

“I suppose you’re well aware that Geralt hates tea,” the witcher says. 

“I do remember his distinct displeasure when it was served to us once,” Jaskier muses. “Is that what you’re making?” 

Casmir has an ornery grin on his face. “Yes, but it will make him feel better. Just don’t drink any yourself. You’ll piss blood.” 

Jaskier doesn’t have to be told twice. Waking Geralt is no easy task, but Casmir is able to not-so-gently prod him into sitting up in bed. Jaskier is waiting with the tea, the chipped mug warming his hands, while Casmir sits next to Geralt. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, feeling Geralt’s forehead with the back of his hand. 

Geralt’s pale face is fixed in a scowl, eyes scrunched closed. The hair on the one side of his head is mussed from where he slept on it. “I’ve been better,” he says. His gravelly voice is down to a rasp.

“I bet.” Casmir pets some silvery hair out of Geralt’s eyes. “I’ve got something that will knock your fever down.” 

Geralt makes a noise that Jaskier could only describe as a tired whine. “No tea.” 

“Yes, tea. Please? I mixed in what little honey I had, just for you.” 

Geralt is still scowling, but he opens his eyes and blinks a few times. He seems placated by Casmir being so softly beseeching. Jaskier hands Geralt the mug, making sure he truly has a grip on it before letting it go. 

“Stop acting like I’m dying,” Geralt growls. “Both of you.” 

Casmir just grins, easy and open as he folds a leg under himself to sit more comfortably on the edge of the bed. 

“Because it’s so terrible to have people fret over you,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt doesn’t reply. Instead, he takes a sip of the tea and makes a face. “Casmir… This is awful. What the fuck.” 

“It’s medicine,” Casmir says without sympathy. “You’ll finish it quicker if you drink it instead of bitch about it.” 

That gets a little smile on Geralt’s face. He drinks the tea, then has a bit of the soup they set aside for him. Jaskier can tell he doesn’t have an appetite. Geralt is eating only to please them and to give himself some fuel. 

“I want to sleep some more,” he finally says. 

Jaskier ends up sandwiched between the two witchers. Geralt spends most of the night shivering, tucked close to the bard’s body. This is out of the ordinary but not unwelcome. Casmir falls asleep on his front and doesn’t move once. The unsettling stillness reminds Jaskier of the way Geralt usually sleeps. Combine that with a slow heartbeat, lowered rate of breathing, and cool body temperature... It’s like sleeping next to a dead body. Before Jaskier falls asleep, he not only pets Geralt but also puts a hand on the middle of Casmir’s back to feel him breathe. 

Sometime before dawn, Geralt's fever finally breaks. He moves away from Jaskier and throws the blankets aside, waking up both his bedmates in the process. 

“Mm?” Casmir asks, sleepy and wordless. 

“I'm fine.” Geralt is sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt over his head. He's soaked with fever sweat. 

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asks, already half sat up. 

It's Casmir who answers, unconcerned. “His fever broke.” 

Geralt is splashing his face with cold water from a basin. His voice is awfully rough, but he doesn't sound as miserable as he did yesterday. “I feel better.” 

He won't come back to bed, complaining that it's too hot. The door to the room opens and closes quietly; Jaskier drifts. When he wakes up again, the sun is rising and Geralt is next to him once more, shirtless and asleep. Casmir is still flanking him on the other side, laying like a corpse and breathing evenly. It's peaceful in ways only a song can describe. Jaskier turns words over in his mind. There's something in there about a bard being kept safe by a tawny hawk and a white wolf.


End file.
